


Final Hour

by Verity58



Category: OneShot (Video Game)
Genre: And I mean the Solstice route ends happy but, Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I can't believe I used that tag, I hate stuff without happy endings, I'm sorry Calamus, Missing Scene, Sibling Relationship, Solstice, Solstice Spoilers, This fic does not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 12:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13271403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verity58/pseuds/Verity58
Summary: You've been at the burial grounds for a while before you start to worry.  You're there with Alula, after all, and time always rushes by when you're playing around with her and listening to her laugh.  Then, one hour turns into two, and two hours turn into three, and you start to realize that the flying machine really should be back by now.





	Final Hour

The first hour or so is perfectly fine.  It is, in fact, almost fun.

Alula darts over bridges and in between patches of moss, catching fireflies in her hands before releasing them into the air and watching them float away.  You’ve both become quite good at firefly hunting.  Since the sun went out, the two of you have worked hard together for countless hours to capture them—both to light your home and to trade to other villagers for toys or clothes.  …Not that it really felt like ‘work’ with Alula around, giggling and turning everything into a game.  You smile, and after a while of watching her and cheering her on, you decide to join in with the fun. 

As you run, you think absent-mindedly that it’s a pity you don’t have a jar with you.  Alula’s probably caught enough fireflies to light your home for a week.  

Your stomach turns when you catch yourself thinking that.  _“Home.”_  You don’t have a home, not anymore.  Gathering fireflies is probably one of the less-important things on your to-do list.  From what you’ve heard, the citizens of Refuge City typically rely on other sources of phosphor.

The thought makes you pause.  The Refuge.  You’re not… _nervous,_ exactly, but you feel uncomfortable.  Apprehensive.  You wonder a little what the Refuge is like—you’ve heard stories about tall buildings and walkways and the rosy red glow that serves as illumination there, but you’ve never been to the city yourself.  Will you have to get a job once you’re there?  You’ve taken good care of Alula since Father died (at least, you like to think you have), but you’re still not completely grown up, and you’re not sure whether you have to be an adult to get a decent job in the city or whether “highly responsible teenager” will cut it.  …Not to mention that you don’t know what skills you even _have_ to offer an employer there.  You can fish and clean and do the laundry, and you know a lot about the flora and fauna that exist around the Ruins, but you don’t know if those are things that someone might pay you for.

You don’t let yourself spend too long worrying, though.  Heaven knows you spend too much of your time worrying as it is.  Your life hasn’t been easy so far, but for the most part it’s all worked out okay.  So when Alula turns away from the fireflies and motions you over to join in a game of tag, you grin and chase after her. 

The world seems a little brighter when she laughs.

No, that first hour isn’t bad at all.  It’s once the second hour rolls around that you start feeling uneasy.  By the time the second hour turns into the third, there is a heavy feeling in your gut that something is wrong, and the feeling is growing with every minute.

The squares have spread at this point, spread enough that there isn’t enough space to play tag or hide-and-seek.  This doesn’t dampen Alula’s spirits in the slightest, of course—nothing has ever been able to keep her down for long.  She simply continues to play one of her many make-believe games in what room is still left.  You try to play with her, struggling to not let your anxiety show, but it’s hard when you feel so keenly aware that your space is shrinking rapidly.  You’re stuck on the last of the three islands that make up the graveyard now, and a twinge passes through you as you peer northward.  You’re cut off from your mother’s grave.  You’d made the choice on purpose, of course—you need to be here on the southernmost island when the flying machine comes back, so that it has enough space to land—but it still stings a little.  This will probably be your last time visiting her, after all.

As seconds tick by, you start to get antsy.  How long has it been?  You’ve generally had a good sense of time, but your worry is making things blur.  All you know is that it’s been a long time.  Too long.  Surely, Niko and his pilot friend must have made it to the Refuge by now.  Surely the pilot has had _more_ than enough time to return.  Hasn’t he?

You’re trapped on less than a third of the final island, now, and though Alula’s eyes are still bright and she’s still chattering at a million miles an hour, she’s also started to shift nervously from foot to foot, and you can tell she’s feeling cramped.  She’s started complaining that she’s hungry, asking where the pilot is, and speculating about what could be taking the flying machine so long.  When her restlessness leads her to try taking a closer look at some of the squares, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest, and you drag her back and away from them, never mind that she was actually being pretty careful about it. 

The panicked look on your face is enough to keep her from trying it again.

You do what you can to distract her.  You ask about her friends, the games she’s played, about what she did on her last adventure exploring in the Ruins, even though she’s already told you about it in detail.  In turn, you talk about the latest news from the village, what you imagine life in the Refuge will be like, and tell her stories that you remember Mom telling you before she died.  For a while, it keeps you both occupied.

Then, a patch of squares appears less than a yard to your left and Alula nearly jumps out of her skin.

You swallow and shepherd her right next to the water’s edge, standing between her and the squares as if you could somehow shield her from them.  You feel painfully, horribly aware that in a few minutes, there won’t be space for the flying machine to land anymore, even if it were to come to a perfect stop the instant that it reached the island.

Where _is_ he?  What happened to them?

Alula’s gone quiet for the first time since coming here, glancing nervously between the approaching wall of squares and the sky where you last saw the flying machine.  A hissing, glitching, staticky noise fills the air, growing louder and more insistent with every minute.

You glance over your shoulder at the ocean, and the crazy, impossible thought comes to you to try to swim away.  It scares you how long you contemplate it, even though you _know_ that there’s no way you can make it.  Even though you _know_ that even if there wasn’t an entire _ocean_ in your way, people from the Glen can barely swim without special equipment.  Your feathers would get waterlogged and heavy the instant you entered the water, dragging you both down like bricks strapped to your backs and sides.  You know this, and still you stare longingly at the water, your thoughts tumbling in frantic circles as you wonder if maybe, just maybe, the two of you would still stand a better chance that way.

Then, the world shudders, and a wall of squares erupts on the waterfront, cutting you off in a way that reminds you of a cage door slamming shut.  Even if you’d wanted to, swimming is no longer an option.

Did the flying machine break down again?  Maybe the pilot needed to make additional repairs once they reached the Refuge, and that’s what’s taking them so long.  You try not to think of what might have happened if the machine broke down with the pilot inside of it on his way back to get you—or, heaven forbid, if it broke while he and Niko were both still on their way to the Refuge.  You try not to think of your world’s only hope plummeting into the ocean from a million feet in the air, or of Niko’s lifeless body sinking steadily into the frigid darkness of the ocean, the sun blinking out as it slips from his fingers.  You try not to think of the half-million other things that might have happened, or the fact that from what you’ve heard, the world’s deterioration is even worse in the Refuge than it is in the Glen.  You try not to think of Niko, cornered exactly like you are, as the squares close in and take him away for good. 

Even if you and Alula die, you pray that the rest of the world might still be saved.

There’s only a few square feet of space left.

“Calamus?” 

Jumping a little as Alula’s voice cuts into your spiraling thoughts, you look down into your sister’s eyes, which are opened painfully wide.

“I’m scared,” she says, and you feel your heart shatter with the words. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, but you can feel your voice trembling as a burning sensation builds behind your eyes.  “Help is coming. We’re going to be okay.”

You’ve always been a terrible liar.

Alula whimpers a little when she sees your distress, and guilt courses through you.  You know that you’ve done nothing but make things worse.  You’ve never felt so helpless before.  Hands shaking, you run your fingers through the feathers on top of her head, putting all your energy into trying to force out a smile that doesn’t seem fake.  You fail miserably—of course you do—but Alula seems to understand that you’re trying to calm her down, so she tries to pretend that it works.  Somehow, that makes you feel even worse than before. 

You continue to whisper little reassurances, promising that things will be okay, but the words are empty, and you both know it.  Things aren’t going to be okay.  The flying machine isn’t coming back.  Even if, by some miracle, Niko and the pilot are safe (and they _are_ safe, you tell yourself, because they _have_ to be safe, the entire world depends on Niko being safe), there’s no possible way that the pilot will make it back in time.  You’re trapped.  Caught, like a fish in a net or fireflies in a jar.  It won’t be long before your own little light goes out.

A new patch of squares hisses and fizzles into existence behind you, and Alula lets out a yelp, her false composure shattering like glass.  She’s crying, now.  You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen her cry.

Trembling, you gather her up into your arms, clutching her to your chest as if you could somehow still actually protect her.  There are squares on all sides, blurring the air until you can hardly see anything through them.  You feel moisture on your cheeks, and realize that at some point in the last few minutes, you’ve started crying, too.

“Help,” you murmur, looking up at the heavens.  “Please, if you’re there… if _anyone_ is there…. Help us, _please_.”

Your begging goes unheard.  There’s a horrible hissing noise, and your left leg goes nuMb %.  Alula sHr ieKs in yo]ur EaR as y 0u  le T   oUt  y&oUr   oW n   HOp3 Le#sS    s0`B #% .

   tHe n , t/he   hiSs sIn G   no i$ E   g E  tS   

                                      Lo uD E%& R                                                                         

                                                                                                                                  a N #  d

                                                                                     e  V er^        yt  h1 n   G   

 

            f @///  DE    sssSs

 

                                                                           t   0 {# % ^>

 

 

 B         ].~{$^&      <.[$            L         $@! &          A    c              ##  #^*                       ///;$&/`/      \\]”&*(         K


End file.
